


I Don't Love You Like I Did Yesterday (But That's a Good Thing)

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Its a song reference tsunami run for your lives, M/M, Making Out, Smut, Song Lyrics, my first smut I'm sorry, so many references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had always been something there. Both knew it; neither could truthfully tell themselves otherwise.</p><p>They managed to keep their feelings quiet, never realizing that the other felt the same way.</p><p>They'd had their share of ups and downs, with a second helping of downs.</p><p>Maybe things are looking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer, 2001

**Author's Note:**

> My first Peterick fanfic, along with my first smut! :P  
> Basically a bunch of firsts.  
> The idea was sitting in (and slowly rotting) my brain for about a month, and then it took me almost a month to finish, so I hope it's good.
> 
> HUGE thank you to stabmewithaspork, who was kind and patient enough to 1) beta this, 2) provide ideas and stuff, and 3) put up with my awkwardness for the week it took. Super amazing. <3
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Patrick opens his door to see Joe with another guy, who is standing behind him, and is wearing a blinding white grin and close-cropped black hair. It's a contrast to Joe's hair, which is currently bleached a bright yellow that Patrick does find a bit ridiculous.

"Hey," he tries to say, but it comes out as a small squeak instead; he looks down at the floor for a second, and feels his cheeks burning. He turns back up again to see the guy's smile gets even bigger, if possible.

"Hi, I'm Pete Wentz and I'm just gonna guess that you're Patrick? Joe told me you're amazing!" the guy, now known as Pete, babbles happily.

Patrick just stands there, nodding a little, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide. Pete is so full of energy, and fuck, he's even hotter than Patrick remembers from the Arma Angelus shows, when he was dripping in sweat.

Finally, Patrick manages to get out a coherent sentence, painfully aware that he's in shorts, black socks, and an argyle sweater, complete with a trucker hat; he is the perfect image of a nerdy guy, while Pete looks like a fucking god.

Suddenly, even Joe's hair seems sophisticated in comparison.

"Um, do you guys wanna come in, and we can go to the, um, basement?" He cringes inwardly at how awkward he sounds.

Pete doesn't seem to care, though, and bounces past Patrick through the door. (Patrick wishes he had some of Pete's confidence and energy.) "Great, thanks, man!"

Joe follows, smirking knowingly at Patrick, who flushes ruby red once again.


	2. November, 2002

Patrick is wringing his hands nervously, trembling a little. It's ten minutes before their first show, and he has a bad case of stage fright.

Pete walks by, mindlessly strumming his bass, a small bounce in his step. He happens to look down at Patrick, who's now attempting quiet voice warm-ups, all the while rocking back and forth on his metal chair. The chair is making awful crunching noises, ones that begin to affect Patrick’s efforts.

"You excited, Pat?" he asks, his smile blinding once again.

Patrick's head snaps up, a strand of rust-colored hair flopping over his eyes, which now burn with anger.

"I told you not to call me that!"

Pete smirks, holding up both hands in defense. "Whatever you say, Pattycakes."

Patrick snarls, his anxiety momentarily forgotten. He leaps up, lunging for Pete and pinning him to the wall with incredible speed and strength, for such a small guy. It helps that Pete isn’t that big to begin with, though.

"Shut the fuck up, Wentz," he growls.

Pete swallows hard, brown eyes wide. Patrick's own sea-blues are narrowed at him in a death glare, their faces inches apart.

After a moment, his bandmate's anger seems to dissipate, and he releases Pete's wrists, backing away. Pete rubs his wrists gingerly.

"Sorry," he mumbles, embarrassed, looking to the floor. "Pent-up nervousness, I guess."

"S'okay," Pete manages to say, trying not think too hard about the position they were just in. "Don't worry, by the way. You're gonna be fucking awesome."

Pete feels his heart melt a little when Patrick gives him a small smile.


	3. 2005

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter's kind of short. Hope it's good so far, tho!

They're in the middle of filming the "A Little Less Sixteen Candles" video when Patrick looks up from his notebooks to glance at Pete, and nearly chokes on his own spit.

Pete's black-lined eyes are half closed, red lips parted, fake fangs glinting, the tomato juice from the blender dribbling down his chin as he gasps for breath.

For a second, Patrick wasn’t sure if Pete even was acting.

He tries to force himself to quit staring, to keep on scribbling, to not be the reason they don't use that take.

They end up having to re-film the scene.


	4. A few months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be one of my personal favorites from this story. For some reason, it was really calming to write, even though it hit my feels a little :')

Patrick wakes to Pete's quiet whimpers. He fumbles for his phone, checking the time.

Two in the morning.

Leaning over the edge of the bunk, he slowly pushes the curtain aside an inch, looking at his friend.

Pete's eyes are clenched tightly, and his face is a little scrunched up. His hands twitch and he whines softly, body jerking every few seconds. He's obviously having a nightmare, which Patrick has seen only a few times before, as Pete constantly suffers from insomnia.

Climbing out of his warm bed, Patrick makes his way over to Pete and sits on the edge of his bunk. "Pete," he whispers gently, taking hold of his friend's hand and rubbing soothing circles with his thumb.

Pete blinks at him, whiskey-brown eyes glistening with tears.

Patrick’s heart nearly breaks for his friend in that moment. Never before has he seen him so... broken.

"'Trick?" he says, voice raspy. Patrick squeezes his hand lightly, reassuringly.

"I'm here."

They stay like that for some time, Patrick rubbing Pete's hand, Pete crying silently.

Finally, Patrick starts to get up as Pete’s whimpers die out, and silence is beginning to fall within the small area, but Pete pulls at his wrist, and he stops.

"Stay with me?"

Patrick’s heart clenches. He nods wordlessly and sits back down.

Pete gently nudges him until they're lying next to each other. Usually, Patrick would protest in the form of slapping and perhaps some grousing, but he doesn't now.

Pulling the blankets over both of them, Pete nestles his head into the curve of Patrick's neck and hugs his arm. His tears soak Patrick's neck, but for some reason, Patrick can't bring himself to care, and slings his other arm over Pete, rubbing his back.

They're on their sides, and he's quietly absorbing the scent of Pete's hair. Eventually, Pete falls back asleep, and doesn't seem to dream this time.

Patrick finds himself never wanting this moment to end, and soon, they breathe as one.


	5. 2006

"I got the chord progression, Pete.”

No response.

His friend remains oblivious, eyes closed. Patrick reaches out with his free hand, grabs a pillow from the floor, and chucks it at Pete's knees. Not hard enough to hurt him, just enough to get his attention.

Sometimes he wishes that he could just slap some sense into him, though.

Pete glances up from his phone screen, looking kind of pissed, and yanks out his headphones.

"Da fuck, 'Trick?"

Patrick rolls his eyes and repeats, "I got the chord progression."

Pete sits up on the edge of his bunk, his expression changing suddenly, looking up at Patrick like an eager puppy. "Awesome! I wanna hear!" Pete says excitedly, his mouth breaking into a wide grin.

Patrick sits down next to Pete and places his pale, calloused fingers on the fretboard of his guitar.

When he starts, it's like nothing Pete has ever heard before.

"I'm gonna make you bend and break...Say a prayer, but let the good times roll, in case God doesn't show..."

Patrick plays through the rest of the song, and when he finishes, he looks at Pete expectantly. "What do you think?"

Pete is utterly speechless, headphones forgotten on his pillow.

When he finds the words, they're a jumble of... he doesn't even know what. "Shit, 'Trick, that was... amazing, I don't even... I can't..."

Patrick looks surprised but elated, and, well, it's well worth the incapability of speech to see the expression on his best friend's face. "Wow... thanks, I didn't really think it was that great..."

"Shut up, it was fucking perfect. You're fucking perfect."

Patrick blushes and Pete laughs gently, resting his head on Patrick's lap.

Pete sighs, enjoying the warmth that was enveloping him, soothing him.

The moment was fucking perfect.


	6. 2008

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are shorter than I realized xD

They're playing a show at the UCF Arena in Orlando, and it's going fairly smoothly: Joe's headbanging like a lunatic, Andy's smashing away on the drums like a badass.

That is, it goes smoothly until Grand Theft Autumn.

Two minutes in, Pete walks over to Patrick as he's playing the riff in the middle of the song. All Patrick can think is _crapcrapcrapcrapcrap_ , because earlier in the shows, every time Pete came this close he would ghost his lips over Patrick's neck or whisper bits of encouragement, warm breath tickling the sensitive parts of his ear.

Which would be totally fine, except that it always throws Patrick's mind off, jarring his focus, driving him insane with the need for more.

So, he just decides to go with whatever crazy shit Pete's planning to do this time, because resistance is futile when it comes to him (it’s a hard lesson he's had to learn over the past few years).

Thankfully, Pete doesn't smooch him on the cheek like when they play "Mr. Brightside." (Patrick couldn't even risk thinking about that at the moment.)

His best friend simply closes his eyes, and with a tiny sigh only they can hear, rests his head on Patrick's shoulder.

Patrick stiffens in mild surprise, hesitating momentarily, then reciprocates the move, dropping his head onto Pete's shoulder.

They stay like that for a few long moments, still strumming their guitars, until Pete moves away and returns to bouncing along the stage.

Patrick almost follows, already missing the feeling of Pete's hair brushing his neck, his familiar scent as they lean against each other, his pure warmth that radiates off of him.


	7. A few months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, fun. :P

Patrick is standing behind the cameraman, watching the scene being filmed as he picks at his thumbnail.

As they wheel in the fake wall, Pete smirks at the camera, black fringe falling over his dark-lined eyes.

As the take progresses, Patrick happens to glance up just as Pete's unzipping his gray hoodie, exposing his tan, beautifully inked skin.

Patrick's blue eyes widen and his breath hitches. It's not like he hadn't read the script, and definitely not that he hadn't seen Pete shirtless before. (He's pretty sure everyone has, and at least seventy-five percent of Earth has probably seen the infamous photo that this scene is based on.)

But Patrick's never seen Pete unzipping his jacket while staring at... him?

He blinks furiously, not quite believing himself, and Pete's gaze drifts back to the camera.

Then, he starts undoing his belt tantalizingly slowly, and, when the camera angles down to show the action, Pete's eyes wander away again, locking with Patrick's as his fingers slide the belt end from the buckle.

Patrick nearly chokes on his own spit. ( _Ugh, déjà spit,_ he thinks.) Thankfully, at that moment, someone yells "Cut!" and then, "Take five."

As people disperse, Patrick speed-walks his way to the bathroom to take care of certain issues.

Ones that Pete _certainly_  didn’t cause.


	8. Fourth of July, 2009

"What the fuck is your problem, Pete?" Patrick spits, glaring at Pete.

“‘The fuck is my problem’ is you!"

Pete immediately realizes that makes pretty much no sense whatsoever, but keeps going, despite that. It’s not like grammar is currently on his mind.

"You, with your stupid self-esteem issues that I can never understand--"

Patrick interrupts, getting up in Pete's face. "My 'stupid self-esteem issues' that you 'can never understand.' That's the thing, Pete. You never understand."

"I can never understand because you're absolutely perfect to me, 'Trick, and you're such a fucking dumbass to think otherwise!"

Pete breathes heavily, gripping the back of a chair tightly, Patrick's stormy blue eyes brim with tears, decorating his eyelashes with the crystalline droplets, and Pete can't tell whether it's from anger or frustration or sadness or pure shock at his statement. Maybe it's all four.

The look quickly disappears, though, replaced by definite anger as Patrick starts up again.

"So now I'M the dumbass? You're the one who's fucking cutting himself off from everyone and all that shit! You think I want it to be like this? Well, let's just all go our own separate fucking ways, then, and while we're at it, we can fly a fucking airplane with a banner saying 'Fall Out Boy are fucking losers who make fucking awful music, please come to our mediocre concerts to insult us!' Because we might as well be fucking doing that now! Do you even fucking hear yourself, Wentz?"

Patrick's voice rises with each word, and by the end, he's screaming in Pete's face, his spit flying over his friend, who wipes it off with his sleeve, glaring at Patrick, hurt and furious.

Pete's rage finally boils over, and he spits back, "Well, that sounds like a really fucking great idea right now, I'd never fucking miss you, so let's split, huh, Pattyca--"

Pete doesn't even get to finish his insult before Patrick's fist is smashing into his face and he's roughly slammed up against the wall. Pete groans as he feels blood rush out of his nose.

"You know," Patrick hisses, face inches from Pete's, "that might be the best fucking idea I've had in years, isn't it."

Then he collapses to the ground, and Patrick snatches his jacket up, marching to the door and slamming it behind him with a bang that shakes the whole room.

Pete just has time, before it does, to catch a last glimpse of Patrick's face, streaked with tears.

Then he realizes Patrick left his old trucker hat on the kitchen table, and he takes hold of it gingerly, using his other hand to cover his nose, trying to stop the red liquid.

It drips in time with the beating of his heart, as silence envelopes the room. It’s that unnatural quiet, like after a concert, and you’re sitting in your room,  your eardrums still hearing the ghosts of the sounds that graced them moments before.

Suddenly, fireworks crackle outside, lighting the New York City sky with bursts of colorful light. The sound, combined with the pain and realization of what just happened, causes him to curl into a tight ball on the floor, clutching the hat, and dissolve into sobs.

He fucked up again, the only person who'd ever truly understood him, stood by him after everything, and he's managed to destroy that.

He doesn’t care that he’s staining his clothes with blood and tears.

It’s all his fault, anyway.

The incident almost reminds him of the one seven years ago, with the stupid nicknames that Patrick hates so much.

Only then, Patrick had come back and forgiven him.

This time, maybe he wouldn't be so lucky.


	9. December, 2010

Pete's fingers tremble as they hover over the call button on his phone.

Patrick's picture beams up at him from the screen: a photo snapped after a show a few years ago, and he looked amazing in it; bright eyes, bright smile, beautiful face (in Pete’s humble opinion).

They'd both been happier than usual, for whatever reason.

So perfect, he thinks bitterly. And now, they are so broken.

But he can try.

He can try calling again, try fixing what he'd said all those months ago.

They'd hardly spoken in the time leading up to the beginning of the hiatus, ever since Patrick had stormed from the room, only with forced politeness on stage and at interviews.

Patrick might turn him away, scream at him to get out of his life.

But he can try.

 _Try_. Something so different than _succeed_.

Almost of its own accord, Pete's finger taps his phone, and the call screen pops up.

Shaking, he lifts the phone to his ear.

It rings and rings and goes to voicemail, his former friend's cheery voice made tinny by the speakers.

"Hi, you've reached Patrick! I'm not available right now, but just leave a message after the beep and I'll try my best to call back!"

A shrill beep.

Pete hesitates, then ends the call.

He would try again. Maybe Patrick hadn't reached his phone in time.

He hits the call button again.

This time, it rings twice, then goes straight to voicemail.

Pete's heart becomes one with the floor.

Patrick declined his call.

The recording again, and the beep.

"Patrick, please call me back. I want to talk."

He ends the message and drops his phone onto the sheets, flopping backwards on his pillows and staring dejectedly at the ceiling.

Pete waits by his phone for a few hours, which turns into a few days, then a few weeks, months, a year.

No call comes.


	10. June, 2012

Pete's phone rings as he sits in front of the TV, chomping on Hot Pockets and watching Iron Chef.

He glances down, a bit irritated (because really, who the fuck dares to call on Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III in the middle of a Hot Pocket meal?). He nearly chokes on a bite of hot cheese and pepperoni.

Patrick.

 _Patrick_.

Dropping his snack, Pete scrambles to pick up his phone and tap the green "answer" button. His fingers are shaking, and he misses a few times.

"Hello?" he says tentatively.

"Pete?"

Patrick's familiar voice comes tinny through the speaker, and Pete nearly sobs with relief.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

Silence.

Pete mutes the TV.

"So, um, why'd you call?"

He hears an almost inaudible sigh on Patrick's end. "Sounds like you didn't want me to?"

Pete backtracks quickly, fumbling his words. "No, no, no, Patrick-- that's n-not--at all--"

He takes a deep breath and tries again. "It's all I've been wanting for over a year, actually. Just needed to hear you."

He thinks he hears Patrick's breath catch at these words, but he's not sure.

A short pause, then Patrick speaks again. "Okay, well, I was wondering, if, um, you'd want to get together sometime and talk? If you have lyrics or music or something that you want to try out."

Pete doesn't answer right away, letting it sink in.

"Are you saying you want to end the hiatus?"

"Maybe. We'll see how it goes. Don't expect anything yet."

It’s better than nothing. A chance is all he needs; something to hold onto.

Pete hesitates. "Okay. When do you want to meet?"

"Your house, 7 tomorrow? We can get dinner if you want."

"Sounds good. Bye, Patrick."

"Mhmm."

The phone beeps softly as Patrick hangs up, and for a while, Pete just sits and stares at it, Hot Pocket growing cold on its plate next to him.

It kind of feels like a _date,_ the way they set it up.

Patrick wanted to get dinner.

He wanted to talk about things.

But Pete's had too much practice being let down before.

He throws away the remaining half of his dinner and goes to bed.

Sleep does not come for another six hours, his insomnia plaguing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because really, who the fuck dares to call on Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III in the middle of a Hot Pocket meal?
> 
> What not to do, kids xD  
> Like just imagine that in a big Gandalf voice or something  
> That was more fun than it should've been to write  
> I probably need help


	11. The next day

Opening his closet, Pete examines possible outfits for the night.

Really, there's only two or three, because he couldn't be bothered to do the laundry, but he needs the perfect outfit to see Patrick again. Maybe something sophisticated?

Pete laughs inwardly. Him, sophisticated?

Yeah, and Brendon's about to fly through the window on a rainbow sparkly Bigfoot, screaming at him to " _Close the goddamn door!"_

He settles on a black leather jacket with black skinny jeans and a red t-shirt. He brushes his teeth vigorously, takes about thirty seconds to comb his dark hair (a new record), and scampers down the stairs to watch TV until Patrick arrives.

Ten minutes into Game of Thrones, the doorbell rings.

Pete practically flies to the door, yanking it open, all in a matter of five seconds. (He's setting a hell of a lot of records today.)

Patrick stands there, in his black combat boots and jeans and button-down shirt, a small backpack slung over his shoulder, looking too fucking perfect, even in the mishmash of clothes. Pete's breath catches. For once, Patrick's not wearing a hat, and the bleach-blond of his hair is mostly gone, letting the rusty brown back through.

For a moment, all Pete can do is just stand there, gaping at him.

It's Patrick, in person.

 _He came back_.

"Patrick..." he trails off, staring at the man, who’s _really here_.

"Pete.”

They stand there, staring at each other for a few more seconds.

Pete manages to unfreeze, and beckons Patrick to come inside. His friend quickly steps out of the mild heat, but once he's inside and Pete's shut the door, they stand awkwardly again, unsure of what to say to each other after being apart for so long.

Finally, Pete moves towards the kitchen. "Go ahead and go to the living room. You can watch TV if you want."

Patrick complies and disappears down the hallway.

Pete enters a few minutes later, holding two mugs of steaming hot tea. Patrick gratefully accepts the beverage, and Pete tentatively perches next to him on the couch.

They sip the drinks in silence until Patrick sets his down on the coffee table.

"So... how've you been?" he asks quietly.

A flood of possible replies comes to Pete's mind: Awful. Missing you like crazy. Wishing you would call me back. Seeing how much happier you are without Fall Out Boy. Without me.

"Fine,” he responds in lieu of the other choices, “Black Cards for a bit. It ended a few months ago. You?"

His responses were short and to the point; he was too nervous for flowery language.

He asks him as if he doesn't know how Patrick's been.

He's been so much better off, that's what.

He seems so different when Pete watches his shows on YouTube, so energetic, blowing the crowd away.

Pete definitely hasn't replayed the parts where Patrick swings his hips or growls.

Not once.

Patrick's voice brings him back to the present. "Pretty well, actually. Been busy for a while. Solo project and stuff."

His voice is reserved, not quite cold, but enough to make Pete's heart drop a little with every word.

Pete forces himself to nod and smile. "S'good."

Another awkward silence.

God, Pete hates awkward silences; he silently resolves to always try and fill them whenever he can.

Patrick turns and unzips his bag, pulling out some notebooks and papers. "So, um, I thought maybe you'd want to talk about lyrics or music or something?"

Pete nods again. "Uh, yeah, lemme just go get my stuff."

He leaves the couch, nearly spilling his tea, and races upstairs. Grabbing his notebook, he takes a moment to splash a handful of cool water on his face, staring at himself in the mirror.

 _Do not fuck this up,_ he tells himself.

When Pete reaches the living room, Patrick is flipping through a blue notebook from his bag. The TV has been turned off, and he glances up when Pete enters.

He takes his seat beside Patrick again, setting the notebook by his half-full mug.

"Before we start anything, I wanna say something." he says quietly.

Patrick just looks at him, expressionless. "Go ahead,” he beckons.

"I'm sorry," Pete blurts out. "I'm sorry for everything I did and everything I said. I didn't mean any of it, and I've just been so lonely without you, and I fucked up, I fucked it up so bad, I--" he trails off as tears well in his eyes.

After a long moment, Patrick reaches for his hand.

"Pete, it's okay. I'm sorry, it was me, too. I should've called you back, I should've answered."

He leans forward and wraps Pete in a hug.

Pete stiffens for a second, then relaxes and hugs him back.

The two remain like that for a long time, until they pull apart and Pete realizes Patrick is also crying.

"I missed you," Patrick whispers.

Pete says, nearly sobbing, "I missed you, too." Pete reaches for the tissue box he keeps on the end table and holds it out to Patrick, who takes one gratefully and swipes at his eyes with it. Pete simply brushes a hand over his own face to wipe his tears.

Patrick straightens, composing himself, and opens to a page near the middle. Like the others, it's crammed with his writing.

"Here, I wrote this a while ago. It... didn't seem like a “Patrick Stump” song. Felt like Fall Out Boy, I guess." he says quietly, holding out the book.

Pete takes it gingerly and starts to read the lines.

 

_Don't panic_

_No, not yet_

_I know I'm the one you want to forget_

 

He looks up at Patrick, confused. "Is this..."

Patrick doesn't meet his eyes. "Just read it."

Pete obeys, and a few lines later, his grip on the papers tightens.

 

_Now you're gone, but I'll be okay_

_Your hot whiskey eyes have fanned the flames_

 

Hot whiskey eyes?

His eyes are whiskey-colored.

Is this about him?

"Patrick?" he whispers.

His friend bites his lip. "Pete... just keep reading. Please."

Pete's eyes drift to another section.

 

_Baby, you were my picket fence_

_I miss missing you now and then_

_Chlorine kissed summer skin_

_I miss missing you now and then_

_Sometimes before it gets better_

_The darkness gets bigger_

_The person that you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger_

_We're fading fast_

_I miss missing you now and then_

 

He forces himself to finish, chest tightening at every word.

The song is obviously about him and Patrick, though he had no idea that Patrick felt this way.

Pete doesn't say anything for a few minutes.

He can feel Patrick's blue gaze drilling into him, can practically hear him wondering what Pete is thinking.

Pete reaches for his tea. It's gone cold, but he sips it anyway, for lack of anything else to do.

Finally, Patrick breaks the thick silence.

"Pete?" His deep voice is timid. "Please say something."

Pete doesn't. He's not sure what to say, but he's trying desperately to find the words.

"It's..." he trails off, and Patrick picks at his mug, eyes downcast.

"Did... did I go too far? Do you not like it?"

"No!" Pete answers quickly. "I'm fine with it, it's just..."

He decides to tell Patrick the truth.

"I didn't know that you felt this way. I thought you hated me after we split up the band. And... for you to write a song about me, like this, I just..."

Pete clears his throat and tries again.

"I love it, is what I'm trying to say."

Patrick's eyes widen, but his shoulders relax visibly.

"O-Okay. That's... good, I guess."

Pete nods encouragingly and brings forth his own writing.

"My turn," he says. Patrick takes the notes.

 

_It was the Fourth of July_

_You and I were fire_

_Fireworks_

_That went off too soon_

_And I miss you in the June gloom too_

_It was the Fourth of July_

_You and I were fire_

_Fireworks_

_I said I'd never miss you_

_But I guess you never know_

_May the bridges I have burned_

_Light my way back home_

_On the Fourth of July_

 

Patrick drags his attention back to Pete, similarly stricken.

Pete's eyes pose a clear question.

"Yes," Patrick says, voice barely audible. "Yes, I love it."

Pete's tension leaves him; he brings Patrick in for another hug and grins widely at him when they let go.

The smile he gives is almost reminiscent of the one Pete gave him when they first met.

"So, does this mean Fall Out Boy is back together, then?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what happened with the sixth sentence. It's late at night and I'm meme-deprived xD


	12. December, 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is probably my favorite from the story. <3

"Hey, 'Trick, what do you want for dinner?"

Patrick glances up from his laptop.

"Uh... Not that hungry."

Pete smirks. "So, Taco Bell, then?"

"Bleh. Whatever."

Pete pulls on his Uggs.

"C'mon, 'Trick, I'm gonna get lonely having to drive all the way by myself!"

"Pete, it's four and a half blocks away."

"Please?"

Patrick sighs and shuts his MacBook.

"Fine." he grumbles, shrugging into his winter coat. "Move your ass."

Pete does, literally, and Patrick's shoe only just misses his head.

They exit the hotel, breath steaming in the frigid air. Pete notices Patrick's teeth are chattering, and playfully reaches for Patrick's jaw, trying to close it.

In response, Patrick nearly bites off his middle finger.

"Dude, I need that for flipping people off!" Pete mock-whines. Patrick snorts and shakes his head.

"Well, it's December, and we're in New York City. Let my teeth do their thing, bastard."

They climb into their rental car, Patrick in the passenger seat.

All the way to Taco Bell, they bicker about the weather, only shutting up once they reach the service counter. Pete orders some churros, much to Patrick's dismay ("Why the hell would you get that, I thought you wanted actual dinner, asshole!"), but his friend quiets once they're back in the warm car, munching on the sugary goodness.

Afterwards, Pete just drives around the city, taking in the bright nighttime lights.

"Patrick?" he says after a while, pulling into an empty parking lot.

"Yeah?" the younger says distantly, gazing out the frosty window, captivated by the sky, which is tinged slightly purple, casting glowing shadows over the concaves of his face, making him appear angelic.

"Want to dance?"

Patrick looks at him strangely. "Pete, it's freezing out there. Middle of December. New York City. Of--"

Pete picks at his thumb awkwardly. "Never mind."

"Let me finish, dumbass. Of course I want to dance."

Pete's head jerks up. He wasn't expecting that. "O-Okay."

They get out of the car, and Pete scrolls through his phone, tapping the first playlist he sees and cranking up the volume.

"Old Friend" comes from the speakers, and Patrick smiles. "Is that Rancid?"

"Yeah."

Patrick steps forward, combat boots crunching on the gravel.

He takes Pete's hand, and because neither of them have very good dancing skills, they just sort of sway to the beat.

"Can I tell you something?" Pete says after a while.

"Sure." Patrick looks up at Pete, curiosity raised.

"Try not to freak out?"

"Okay."

"I think..."

He swallows hard, and forces himself to meet Patrick's beautiful blue eyes (Pete realizes, in that moment, that Patrick’s eyes also contain majestic swirls of a green and yellow color, which reminds Pete of the ocean).

"Um..."

He can't do this.

Patrick will flip.

He's gonna fuck everything up again, he just knows it.

A new song comes on, and Pete silently identifies it as "End of Time," from Danzig.

It really does kind of feel like time is going to end.

"Yes? Pete, are you okay?" Patrick looks puzzled, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side, squinting a bit, rusty hair falling over his forehead.

Pete runs his hands through his spiky black hair.

He can't do this.

He can't.

Patrick seems to sense his dilemma, and reaches out to take Pete's hands.

"Pete, look, man, you can tell me anything. Whatever it is, I'll try to take it as best as I can." he says softly.

Reassured by Patrick's promise, Pete takes a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

Here goes the end of his world.

"Patrick, I think... I think I'm in love,” he mumbles.

Patrick looks even more confused now. "Uh, okay... with... who exactly?"

"With you." Pete manages to croak, face heating into a dark blush.

He looks away, embarrassed.

"I think I'm in love with you."

Patrick just stares at him, blank-faced.

Pete forces himself to meet Patrick's eyes.

"If... if you don't want to have anything to do with me, I-I underst--"

Patrick suddenly yanks Pete forward by the front of his shirt. "Shut up," he whispers.

Suddenly, Patrick's lips are on his.

For a moment Pete can't move, frozen in shock. Then he begins to kiss back, and it's pure bliss. Patrick's gloved hands move to drape around his neck.

Pete's dreamed about this for almost thirteen years, and it's finally happening.

Finally.

Patrick's lips are soft and warm and taste sweet, like the churros they'd shared earlier. His large glasses nudge against the bridge of Pete's nose. Their mouths slide like their lips had been sculpted to fit together by the gods.

There's nothing harsh or rushed about it; the kiss is serene and chaste.

Pulling away slowly, they stare at each other, wide-eyed.

"That... that was..." Pete begins.

"Wonderful..." Patrick responds, his face flushed and lips slightly puffy.

"Yeah." Pete breathes.

They stand there for a long moment, sharing each other's warmth, and snow begins to drift gently from the skies.

Patrick tilts his head up and sticks out his tongue to catch a few flakes. Pete laughs softly as they land on Patrick's feather-soft hair instead.

He wraps his arm around his best friend and leads him back to the car, catching a snowflake on his finger and dabbing the tip of Patrick's nose with it.


	13. Twenty minutes later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut in this chapter. Don't like, don't read.

Patrick and Pete stumble into the hotel room, discarding their damp winter gear in the bathroom.

After they've changed into warm, comfortable clothes, they sit on the couch together, and Pete flicks on the TV in time for Law and Order. Patrick's favorite; this really is going well.

He wraps his arm around Patrick, who snuggles into his embrace, leaning his head on Pete's shoulder.

When it's over, they've both fallen into a light doze, until Pete opens his eyes and sees, from the digital clock on the table, that it's midnight. He shuts off the TV, and turns to Patrick.

"Patrick," he whispers gently. "C'mon. It's late."

His friend blinks, yawning widely. "M'kay."

They rise reluctantly from the couch, and Pete angles his lips to Patrick's again.

They kiss like before for a minute, until Patrick tentatively nibbles at Pete's bottom lip.

Pete parts his lips to allow him access. The younger's tongue grazes his teasingly, and Pete jumps a little, as if a bolt of electricity shot through his body. He thinks he feels Patrick smirk at the movement.

Their kiss becomes heated as Pete's fingers twine in Patrick's hair, Patrick fitting his hands over Pete's back.

Suddenly Pete breaks free, tearing a noise of protest from Patrick, which quickly turns into a whimper as Pete kisses along his jawline. Patrick tilts back his head, exposing his pale throat, which Pete eagerly sucks a small bruise onto, eliciting a small sound from Patrick.

"Did I find a sensitive spot?"

It's Pete's turn to smirk now, moving to his collarbone and biting gently.

Patrick gasps. "Pete--"

"Yes, 'Trick?" he teases.

Patrick's reply comes in the form of sliding beneath the hem of Pete's shirt, running his hands across Pete's lean stomach, over his hips, up his back and down again. Pete stumbles back, and Patrick looks a bit confused until he practically rips off his t-shirt.

Now Patrick's gaze roves over his body, hungrily taking in the dark tattoos and tan skin like he's never seen it before and never will again. His tongue flicks out to moisten his pink lips, and Pete grins. "Like what you see?" he asks, smirking.

Patrick snorts. "You act like I've never seen you shirtless before."

Pete steps closer. They're only inches apart now.

"You've never seen me like this before."

Patrick swallows at Pete's tone, low and almost gravelly. Pete smirks at this, and sees Patrick's eyes flash in annoyance.

"See, the thing is," Patrick whispers, pressing close, letting his breath ghost over the shell of Pete's ear, causing him to shiver, "you haven't seen me like this, either."

Pete shivers at the words.

It's true, he's never seen the seductive side of Patrick.

He's loving it.

Pete slides his hands tentatively under Patrick's shirt. The younger man loses his confidence for a moment, instinctively drawing in on himself.

"Is this okay?" Pete murmurs to him, fingering the hem of the fabric.

Patrick swallows again, chews on his lip, contemplates.

"Yes," he finally answers quietly, holding his arms up above his head. Pete smiles and slides his shirt off, throwing it onto a nearby chair.

Pete's eyes rove up and down Patrick's bare chest, taking in what he's wanted to see since forever. It's a beautiful, pale expanse of smooth skin, so perfect that Pete's afraid if he touches Patrick, he'll mark it up.

He decides that's not such a bad idea, storing it for later.

Patrick's squirming under his gaze, obviously self-conscious. Pete gently takes his hand, rubbing it with his thumb.

"Hey, look, 'Trick, you're perfect. Don't feel any other way, got it?"

Patrick swallows once more and nods hesitantly, but Pete knows he truly doesn’t believe it.

Someday he will, because it’s true.

He’s perfect.

"Glad we're clear on that," Pete mumbles, pulling Patrick into another heated kiss. His fear seems to vanish quickly, which Pete is glad for.

Patrick then takes it a step further and rolls his hips against Pete's, once, and tortuously slow to boot. Pete can't help but let out a breathy whimper at the touch. He's getting hard now, and Patrick seems to be in a similar situation.

They should probably fix that.

Pete shoves Patrick towards the bed, trying not to hurt him. Patrick's knees buckle as he hits the edge, and falls backwards onto the mattress.

Right where Pete wants him.

Ignoring the puzzled expression on Patrick's face, Pete follows and leans over the younger, capturing his mouth in another kiss, even more desperate than the last. Patrick responds by pulling him closer. Pete crawls onto the bed, placing one knee next to Patrick's hip, the other between his legs.

Pete moves back down to Patrick's neck, trailing kisses from his collarbone, down his chest, over his navel. Patrick gasps at the touch, hands grasping at Pete's hair and neck.

"P-Pete," he stutters. Pete looks up through his lashes, locking eyes with Patrick and teasingly hooking a finger in the waist of Patrick's pajama pants.

"Yes, Patrick?" he says innocently.

Without warning, Patrick quickly moves his hips away from Pete's touch.

All Pete can think is, _Shit, I fucked up again_.

But then Patrick's lifting his hips from the bed, and oh, he's sliding off his pants and throwing them from the bed. They land in a heap somewhere on the floor beyond.

Moving back to Pete, he sits up and grabs Pete by the shoulders.

Before the latter can register what's happening, Patrick has turned them around and pushed Pete down into the mattress, pulling down his pants. They join Patrick's across the room a moment later.

"They were getting in the way," the younger man grumbles, and Pete grins in response.

“They were, weren’t they?” he says cheekily, and Patrick gives a breathy laugh.

Pete's looking up at Patrick, who's now straddling him, pupils blown. He moves his hands to either side of Pete's head, and leans down to kiss him again.

Patrick grinds down ever so slightly, and Pete gives a low moan. Smirking, Patrick repeats the action, rolling his hips into Pete's. The friction is delicious; Pete is shivering, and it's not from the slight chill in the room.

Patrick is copying what Pete did to him before: poking around at the waist of his gray boxers. Pete reaches down, trying in vain to take them off.

Patrick's holding them in place. "Not yet," he murmurs.

Unexpectedly, Patrick lifts his hips and uses one hand to slide away his own boxers, giving Pete a glorious view of all of Patrick.

He gapes, now almost painfully turned on. Seeing his stare, Patrick blushes a little and hunches his shoulders, the old shyness returning.

Tugging at Patrick's hands, he cries, "Patrick, please, take them off!" It's the only thing separating him from Patrick now, the only thing keeping their bare skin from sliding together.

The thought of it makes Pete close his eyes, makes his heart beat faster, and finally, Patrick consents.

Now it's skin-on-skin and it feels fucking amazing.

Pete whimpers, bucking his hips.

Then a firm hand is holding them down, and Patrick is growling in his ear, "No."

Pete glares at him. "Don't tease!"

Patrick simply kisses along his neck, twining a finger in his black hair, grinding ever so slightly against him. Pete groans again, at the same time that Patrick does something that Pete's pretty sure will kill him.

Moving to his thorn necklace, Patrick traces the tattoo with his tongue, moving down, down, reaching the bartskull, outlining that one too.

Then Patrick moves to Pete's dick and laps at the head. Pete yelps and bucks into Patrick's touch. He moves away again.

"Every time you do that, we stop. Got it?"

All Pete does is nod, clenching his eyes shut. He's pretty sure he'll come if he sees Patrick like this, and, well, that'd be pretty embarrassing.

"Good." Patrick moves his head back, and Pete lets out a high squeak that he's mildly ashamed of.

"God, you're so fucking easy, it's like you've never done this before," Patrick snickers, and his lips close around Pete's cock.

Pete's trying as hard as he can not to thrust into Patrick's mouth. It works, at least until Patrick decides to hum, sending vibrations through Pete that make him moan a little too loudly for his own liking.

Suddenly, Patrick pulls off. Pete immediately bolts upright, whimpering. "But I didn't--" Patrick shushes him with a finger to the lips. "I know."

"Then why--" Pete begins again, gazing at Patrick.

Pete's sentence is cut off again as Patrick flips them back over, so that Pete is on top.

"Fuck me, Pete. Please."

Pete's eyes widen. "W-what? Are you sure?" he stutters, caught by surprise.

"Yes, Pete, I am damn certain!" Patrick growls, tugging at Pete's shoulders.

Demanding, controlling sex-Patrick is something that will take a while to get used to, but he’s perfectly fine with it.

Better than fine, actually.

Pete frowns. "Um, I don't know if I ha--"

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Shut up, I already know you have lube in your bag."

Pete gets up to get said bottle, raising an eyebrow at Patrick.

"And just how do you know that?" he questions, fishing the lube out of his backpack.

"That, good sir, is for me to know and you come to a realization because of."

"The realization that you go through my stuff when I'm not looking?"

"The realization that you should be a little quieter when jerking off."

Pete squeaks and nearly drops the lube. The little bottle bounces in and out of his grasp before he finally catches it. "Huh?" he squeaks. The look on his face must be priceless, because Patrick laughs softly.

"You heard me. Or, rather, I heard you."

Pete is speechless. Patrick sits up, leaning forward and grabbing Pete's wrists, pulling him back onto the bed.

Pete sees a flash of what happened at their first show; Patrick pinning him up against the wall…

He gave a miniscule shake of the head to clear his thoughts, and to focus on present-Patrick instead.

"The other day, when I was in the shower. Started the water before I got in, to let it warm up. You thought I was already in, couldn't wait, could you?"

Pete keeps on gaping at Patrick. He thinks he knows which occasion Patrick's talking about. The younger continues, blue eyes glinting.

"You really don't think I heard you moaning my name? There's a reason I took longer than usual in the shower, Pete."

Pete shivers as he realizes what he's saying. He's been pulled back on top of Patrick, who slowly runs his hands over Pete's chest.

"So hot, so fucking hot, hearing you imagine I was the one doing that to you," Patrick whispers, grinding up against Pete, who whimpers again.

"Well, guess what, babe? Now I can do that to you for real, maybe better."

Pete growls at Patrick's words, popping open the lube and drizzling a generous amount onto three fingers. One can never have too much lube.

"Damn right you can do it better," he breathes, slowly pushing a finger into Patrick, who gasps and tenses at the sudden addition.

Pete kisses him softly. "S'okay, 'Trick, just relax as much as you can." Patrick does, and after a few moments, gives a muffled "More."

Pete consents, adding a second digit and scissoring them, stretching Patrick as gently as he can. Patrick chews on his lip, getting accustomed to the feeling for a few minutes, then quietly says, "M'kay, the last one."

Pete slips in the next one, and Patrick clenches his eyes shut, chewing furiously at his lower lip.

"You okay?" Pete asks, concerned. "How does it feel?"

"Burns a little," Patrick murmurs. "S'okay, though. Getting better."

Pete begins trying different angles, until he finds one that makes Patrick gasp and grind back against his hand.

"P-Pete!"

He grins and rubs against it again, making a mental note of where it is. Patrick is moaning now, arching up into his touch.

"God, th-that feels so g-good, ngh!" he stutters, eyes clenched tight.

"Pete, fuck me, f-fuck me now, please--"

Pete pulls away his fingers, causing Patrick to whimper at the loss. Leaning down to kiss him, Pete lubes himself up, using more than he thinks necessary. He's pretty sure this is Patrick's first time, and he wants to make it as good for him as possible.

"Okay." Pete presses himself to Patrick's entrance, causing him to shiver.

"You ready?"

"Yes," Patrick whines, "Fuck me, Pete, need you so much, please, come on!"

And, well, Pete can't resist when Patrick says it like that.

He pushes in slowly, and Patrick whimpers. This time, it's from the pain.

"Sorry," Pete whispers, flinching a tiny bit. He remembers his first time, too.

"Don't be," he hears Patrick mumble from beneath him. "Just... give me a minute." Pete does, waiting patiently for Patrick to adjust to the stretch.

After a few long moments, Patrick exhales. "Okay. Move."

Pete tentatively moves his hips, and Patrick clenches his fists in the sheets, moaning.

"You okay, 'Trick? Does it hurt too much? Should I stop?"

Patrick shakes his head. "I'm okay. Burns a little, but it's... better when you're moving."

So Pete does, and soon Patrick's little noises of discomfort turn to ones of pleasure.

Pete quickens his pace, thrusting harder each time, until Patrick's a sweaty mess beneath him.

It's insanely hot, seeing Patrick wrecked like this, moaning and grinding back against him.

Then Patrick decides to lock his legs across Pete's back, raising his hands to grab at Pete's shoulders. This changes the angle, and Pete grazes Patrick's prostate.

Patrick yelps from under him.

"A-ah! Pete, oh god, right there, yes, fuck!"

Pete grins and changes the angle again, smacking right into Patrick's sweet spot.

The younger man practically screams, hips bucking.

"You like that, huh?" Pete whispers in his ear, mind clouded from pleasure, kissing down his neck.

"Yes, oh my god, Pete, fuuuuuck!" Patrick's mouth is open in a perfect O, pale skin flushed a beautiful pink, glistening with sweat.

Pete is slamming into him, hitting his prostate on every other thrust.

"Think you can come just from this?"

"Oh god, fuck yes, Pete!" Patrick sobs, moaning nonstop, writhing beneath him.

"You're mine," Pete growls. "A-always have been, always been y-yours, Pete!" Patrick responds, voice climbing rapidly in pitch.

He latches his mouth onto Patrick's neck, sucking another bruise into the tender skin.

"Mine."

Heat begins to pool in Pete's stomach, and he knows he's close.

"Gonna... come soon..." he grunts.

Honestly, he's shocked neither of them have yet. Patrick is warm and insanely tight around him, and he obviously loves what Pete is doing to him.

"Me--too--A-AH!"

Patrick arches up off the mattress as Pete fucks into him with everything he's got.

Pete groans and lifts a hand, wrapping it around Patrick's cock.

He only gets two strokes in before Patrick screams his name and comes between them, raking his nails down Pete's back, entire body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. The warm come runs down Pete’s chest and arms, painting them in sticky stripes.

A second later, Pete comes, his vision going nearly white as he gasps for breath, collapsing onto Patrick, who's still whimpering, limp from the intensity.

They stay like that for a few minutes, catching their breath, until Patrick gently pokes at him.

"You're squishing me," he rasps, making Pete realize that his voice is totally wrecked.

 _That's hotter than it should be_ , he thinks, rolling off to lay next to Patrick, grabbing a tissue in the process. Pete pulls him close, and he nestles his head into Pete's chest, tangling their legs.

They're both covered with sweat and come, which is a little gross, so Pete uses the tissue to gently wipe it away.

That's when he feels Patrick sobbing into his chest.

Pete immediately tenses, confused. "Shit, 'Trick, what's wrong? Did I do something? Did I hurt you?" he gasps, taking Patrick's face in his hands.

"N-no, Pete, it's fine. I just..." Patrick closes his eyes, tears leaking out and carving glistening trails down his pink cheeks.

"Just what?" Oh, god, if he did something again, if he fucked this up again…

"I love you, Pete. I love you so much. Always have."

And, well, if Pete were to say that didn't make his heart melt, then his metaphorical pants would be on fire. Not that he's wearing any right now.

"I love you too," Pete whispers, and shit, now he's crying.

Warm tears coat his sweaty face; he wants to wipe them away, but decides against it.

"Ever since you opened that door and saw me and made that little squeaky noise."

Patrick blushes at the memory. "You... you remember that?"

Pete laughs gently, kissing the top of Patrick's head and looking down into his blue eyes.

"Of course I do. And what you were wearing, and what time it was, and that you didn't know how to make lunch so we ate Frosted Flakes, and that I threw mine at you, and you hit the bowl just before it hit your face, and it ended up hitting Joe, and he fell over into your drum kit, and you got so mad you went to go kick him, but you tripped over the cereal bowl and hit yours. And I was laughing so hard I was rolling on my ass on the floor and crying, then your spoon flew up when you hit the bowl and hit me in the balls, and you laughed so hard you fell off the couch and--"

Patrick's tears are from laughing now, and Pete’s happy.

"Okay, that's enough, asshole," he snorts in between giggles.

"Yeah, but that was some crazy funny shit. One hell of a chain reaction." Pete sighs, reminiscing in the hilarious memory. "No kidding," Patrick laughs.

After a minute, they calm down, gazing into each other's eyes again.

Pete pushes a strand of auburn-brown hair from Patrick's face.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

"Can it be an apology?"

"Okay...?"

Pete takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry..." he chokes up a little at what he's about to admit.

Patrick looks confused and a little scared. "For what?"

"I'm sorry every song's about you, Patrick."

Pete almost laughs at the words, despite the sincerity of them, remembering the song lyrics he had written.

Patrick's sea-colored eyes widen, his lips parting slightly in shock. "W-what?"

"I'm sorry every song's about you,” Pete repeats, staring straight into his eyes, and sees what he thinks could be Patrick’s soul; bare and emotional and beautiful and perfect.

The tears return to Patrick's eyes. "Every... every song?"

Pete nods slowly. "Well... most of them, anyway."

Patrick is frozen, and Pete can practically hear all the lyrics spinning through his head.

 

_Hope this is the last time, 'cause I never say no to you…_

_Now I only waste my time dreaming of you…_

_I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me…_

_I'm addicted to the way I feel when I think of you…_

_I wanna scream "I love you" from the top of my lungs, but I'm afraid that someone else will hear me…_

_You know I only wanted fun and you got me all fucked up on love..._

 

"Oh, god..." When Patrick speaks, it's barely audible. "All this time? All those lyrics, those songs? They're about me?"

"Yes," Pete affirms, suddenly embarrassed at his sincerity. "But... what about, like, the sex stuff? That never happened, not till now, at least."

"Fantasies," Pete mumbles, and Patrick's breath hitches.

"You... had fantasies? About me?" He sounds breathy, happy, but there is a confused, disbelieving undertone to his words.

Pete rolls his eyes. "Hell, yes, I did. You said you heard me the other day, when you were in the shower."

"Oh. Right." It's Patrick's turn to be embarrassed, and he blushes again.

"Just... holy shit, Pete, that's really kind of hot."

"Well, you know me. Sexy is my middle name."

Patrick laughs, and Pete shoots him an affronted look. "No, your name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third."

"Shut up. I can change my name if I want to." Pete sticks out his tongue, smiling.

"Okay, then, Peter Sexy Wentz."

Patrick laughs softly, tilting his head up to kiss him, and, well, Pete's happier than he's been in the longest time.

Exhausted, they finally fall asleep on their sides, with Patrick's face nestled into the curve of Pete's neck, hugging his arm. Pete's other arm is slung over him, and his nose is buried in Patrick's hair.

Soon, they breathe as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope my first smut wasn't too bad
> 
> And sorry if it was :P


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Thanks a bunch again to stabmewithaspork, who was amazing enough to patiently beta this and then wait two weeks for me to get back and post it!

Patrick wakes slowly, blinking to clear his sleep-riddled eyes. He feels the crinkled hotel sheet beneath him, and the pale, warming, winter sunshine that is streaming through the partially open curtains. Pete's arm is wrapped around his middle, and their legs entangled, his nose buried in Patrick's hair.

Wait.  _What?_

Patrick's eyes snap open again as he realizes this.

_Oh, shit..._

Suddenly, the events of last night come rushing back to him. His momentary panic fades, and he breaks into a wide grin.

Rolling over with some difficulty, he presses a gentle, chaste kiss to Pete's lips.

Whiskey eyes appear from behind fluttering eyelids as he wakes up.

"Hmn--wha..." Pete mumbles against Patrick's mouth.

Patrick pulls away, smiling. "Morning, sleepyhead,’ he says affectionately.

The same shock flashes in Pete's eyes for a split second. He then relaxes, appearing to also have remembered.

"Morning, 'Trick."

They cuddle for another twenty minutes or so, until Pete yawns and stretches.

"Whaddya say we get dressed and get breakfast? They have waffles down there."

Patrick's sea-colored eyes crinkle in a smile. "I'd love that."

They roll out of bed (quite literally in Pete's case: "Oh my god, are you okay?" "Yeah, just fell on my ass."), and Patrick's smile morphs into a smirk as he notices Pete's morning wood.

"Got a little problem there?" he questions slyly.

Pete throws a sock at him, which he easily dodges (years of playing in concerts has allowed him to be really good at dodging projectiles).

"Well, I wouldn't call it little, exactly." Then it's his turn to smirk. "I think you can testify to that, huh?"

Pete narrowly avoids the pair of underwear that Patrick chucks at him.

"Just... put some clothes on, dammit," Patrick grumbles, but even with his back turned, Pete knows he's grinning.

Stuffing his feet into his sneakers, Patrick grabs the key card and inches backwards towards the door.

"Maybe I'll help you when we get back.” He winks.

Pete's eyes widen at the suggestion, and satisfaction flares in Patrick's chest. It’s great to get one over on Pete; it’s a rare occurance, really.

Suddenly, there's an insistent banging on the door. Patrick rolls his eyes and turns to answer it. He pulls the door open.

Andy and Joe stand there, holding breakfast trays piled high with waffles and cereal.

In a heartbeat, Pete is beside Patrick.

"Ohmyfuckinggodyoufuckingbroughtwafflesholyfuckingshitthankyou SO FUCKING MUCH!" he squeals, yanking a tray from Joe's hands and plopping down on the rumpled bedsheets to scarf down the food.

The other three burst out laughing, and Patrick ushers their friends in. "Thanks, guys."

They sit around the room to eat their breakfasts. Joe breaks the silence after a few minutes.

"I would ask how last night went, but I don't really need to."

Patrick and Pete choke simultaneously.

Patrick, still holding his near-empty bowl of Frosted Flakes, begins to flail around. Pete thumps him on the back, and he loses his grip on the bowl, setting off a whole new chain reaction.

It flies from his hand and smacks Joe in the face. He falls backwards, landing on Patrick's laptop and headphones. Patrick yelps and leaps from the edge of the bed, diving for Joe. He trips over the bowl, instead, and the spoon becomes airborne.

By now, Pete is rolling on the bed with laughter. The spoon smacks into his crotch, and for the second time that morning, Pete falls off the bed, wheezing.

Andy is the only one left metaphorically standing, and he's laughing so hard that he's crying.

"Holy shit... you guys...!" He can barely speak between gasps of laughter.

Five minutes later, they're all sitting back in their original positions.

Pete is holding his crotch, Joe is holding his nose, Patrick is holding his laptop and headphones protectively, and Andy is not holding back as he belts out, "This is gospel, for the fallen ones...!"

He can't even get past that line, though, as he's bursting into laughter every time.

"To answer your original question, Trohman," Pete says suddenly, pulling Patrick close to him, "last night was... well, you said you already know."

Patrick's face is tomato-red and hidden in his hands.

Joe snorts. "Bitch, please, I'm pretty sure everyone on the floor of this hotel knows. And the room below, and the one above. And especially the poor drummer and guitarist who were occupying the room next to yours. Though maybe you could've been a little louder, I think the lobsters in Maine could only hear a little bit of--"

Patrick turns to burrow into the sheets, his face beet red all the way down to his collarbone.

He's never been so embarrassed in his life; surely it can't get any worse.

Until, Pete yanks him forward and their lips crash together.

Patrick might die of humiliation in the next five and a half seconds.

Then, Andy mutters to Joe. "You owe me ten bucks." Joe digs it out, grumbling back, "Oh, so the twenty from last night wasn't enough?"

"That's the rules, Joeman," Andy says in a sing-song voice, and pockets the cash.

Patrick Stump will need a headstone and a copy of "Take This to Your Grave" within the next day.

Maybe Pete can get the one-day shipping on Amazon.

"Well," Joe says, rising, clapping his hands together and grabbing his tray, "that's that, I suppose. You two have fun. Inside voices if you can." He turns to leave the room, Andy following quickly.

Patrick's never been so mortified in all his twenty-nine years.

"Oh, we will!" Pete calls after their friends, waving cheerfully.

Time of death: 8:47 AM.

The door shuts behind Andy and Joe, and Pete immediately turns back to look at Patrick.

"Well, that was interesting."

Patrick doesn't answer, just gets up and changes back into his pajamas. Pete grins and follows suit.

"So, about that problem I have..." Pete says once they're back on the bed.

Patrick rolls his eyes, still blushing from earlier.

"You're a dick,” he complains.

"No, my dick is a dick. Not me."

"You're a dick," Patrick repeats, shaking his head slightly.

Pete laughs, a warm sound full of sunshine and rainbows. It makes Patrick's heart melt; his humiliation is quickly dissolving.

Then, he's being gently pushed down onto the mattress, returning Pete's adoring gaze until they kiss.

"I love you," they whisper at the same time, and giggle at their cliché-ness.

Snuggling down into the sheets, they sleep away the rest of the morning together in a close embrace.

This is perfect, in their own special way, and they love it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was good! Thanks for reading <3


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